Not Another New Year's (Holiday Duet Book 2) Read online

  No schoolteacher, this.

  To ensure that, she recklessly unfastened another button of her overshirt. A quarter inch of camisole lace showed. She unfastened another. Hah!

  Back out in the bar, she didn't see the twins right away, so like everyone else, she focused on the big screen TV and the New Year's countdown. Her head spinning a little with the uh, excitement, she stood on the crowded dance floor, chiming in with everyone else.

  "...three...two...one...Happy New Year!"

  A wild cheer went up. "Auld Lang Syne" started playing over the sound system. Couples around her began kissing.

  Hannah smiled at the hedonistic, anti-schoolteacher atmosphere, and then a finger tapped her shoulder. She spun.

  A swarthy, sweaty-looking man was standing too close. "Happy New Year!" he said, though he didn't look happy about anything. He reached out to grip her upper arms. His fingers closed too tight.

  Did he want a kiss?

  No. She didn't want to kiss him, as schoolmarmish as that sounded on a night like this one. Her feet backed up, but there was nowhere to go in the mass of bodies around her. She jerked her head back and forth, her gaze seeking her huge saviors, but there was only a wall of strangers on every side.

  "Come with me," the swarthy one said, pulling her closer, his fingers biting into her arms.

  "No, thank you!" Hannah tried digging her heels into the sticky wooden dance surface beneath her feet. "I'm—I'm—I'm...here with someone."

  She was supposed to be finding someone, she remembered, hours late and many dollars short.

  And surely that someone was not this man with the sweat in the folds of his heavy neck and the dark— malice? or was that just the mojitos talking?—in his narrowed gaze.

  Where was Tanner Hart when she needed him?

  The man holding her dragged her closer until she felt his breath on her face and the hot dampness of his shirt against hers. Okay, fine, she thought, going into pleaser mode again. What was the big deal? If it was just a meaningless New Year's peck he wanted, it would be easier to surrender.

  But her body wasn't as resigned to the idea as her brain.

  With a strangely desperate strength, she found herself wrenching back. Her high heels cursed her again, and she tripped, careening backward through the crowd on the dance floor. People parted at her out-of-control retreat and her heart hammered as she saw Swarthy Man come after her.

  She felt behind her for something to stop her precipitous stumble. Her hands waved air. Then her heel caught and her legs folded. New hands found her waist. Her butt came to rest on hard thighs.

  On a gasp, she looked up. It was the blond man. The beautiful one she'd pegged as hard-edged and probably trouble. But odd, she thought, as his arm came around her midsection, she'd never felt so safe. From the corner of her eye she saw the swarthy stranger melt back into the crowd. Relieved, Hannah glanced down at the gold-dusted forearm clasping her close. She saw the long muscle there flex to pull her even tighter against him. His fingers splayed across her hip bone, and she stared at the strong veins that ran across the back of his wide hand. Every hot finger felt like a brand against her pelvis.

  "I was planning to forego a New Year's kiss..." the man who held her on his lap said in a deep, bemused voice. His breath tickled the warm flesh of her cheek, and as Hannah looked up, she felt goose bumps flee down her neck for safer climes.

  Hannah herself didn't want to go anywhere. She heard her heart pulsing in her ears, and her breathing sounded loud inside her head, but she didn't want to move from her spot between the rock of his steely arm and the hard place of his thighs covered by soft, worn jeans.

  She really should move, of course. But this close the beautiful man wasn't any less tempting than from afar. The nostrils of his straight nose flared as if he could smell her attraction to him. His blue eyes stared into hers and she felt a flush of heat wash away the goose bumps just in time for another set to prickle over her sensitive skin.

  Mesmerized, she tried telling herself that she was too old to feel such an instant, hormonal pull. Or at least too sensible to do anything about it. She should get up right now, even before he could kiss her, if that's what he indeed intended. Even if that's all he wanted.

  Because, God, it wasn't all she wanted.

  The fact was, she'd sacrificed more than holidays and her heart to Duncan. She'd lost her

  self-esteem and she knew, without reason but without a doubt, that this man could fill the holes in her soul. It might only be with tinsel and flash—he was that beautiful—but she'd come to Coronado because home left her so empty.

  Anything would be better.

  Who was she kidding? This man wore sex like cologne. Unless she was very mistaken, he would be better than anything she'd ever dreamed.

  Though maybe Duncan had found her lacking in that department, she suddenly thought, tensing.

  Maybe that explained—

  The stranger slid his free hand down the fall of her hair, as if sensing she needed soothing. "Yeah, I wasn't go to seek anyone out to night," he continued in that slow voice, and she not only heard the words but felt them as a rumble against her body that was resting against his. Crackling awareness filled up the little distance between their mouths and eyes. Then it expanded into a bubble around them, and she thought if she waved her fingers, the electric static would set off sparks.

  Between her thighs, a location she'd considered all-but-forgotten, tingled with life. A tightness at the tips of her breasts said they were awakening too.

  The man leaned closer and his sandpapery cheek gave hers a slow caress. She wanted to moan with the goodness of it. Her head was dizzy, maybe with mojitos, maybe with the sudden disappearance of her normal inhibitions.

  Was he the good time she'd been seeking?

  His whisper sounded like seduction in her ear. "But since you came to me, sweetheart..."

  Chapter Three

  Women had always been a weakness of his, Tanner Hart admitted to himself, looking down at the flushed, long-legged beauty in his lap. When he'd spied her careening toward him out of the crowd, he'd had a gut-churning moment of foreboding when he thought she was his bad luck charm, Desirée, but one breath of her scent, one second of her resting in the cradle of his body, and he'd known she was someone else entirely.

  Funny, though. The foreboding wasn't fully gone.

  And because of that, and because he'd given his vow, he knew he should set her back on her feet.

  But hell, it was New Year's Eve and how could one little kiss hurt? He was just drunk enough to forget that it was one little kiss that had fried his ass in hellfire to begin with.

  So Tanner bent his head toward her, his gaze on her lips, flushed such a pretty red. He smiled a little, appreciating the passionate color. In his experience, a woman's mouth reddened to the exact same shade as her nip—

  "Here's your drinks," a no-nonsense voice grated out.

  Tanner's head jerked up. His eyes met those of his brother, Troy, as the other man clacked down another beer and some girly drink on the table.

  "I was this close to tossing her butt out," Troy said, nodding toward the figure in his arms.

  That was Troy, all right, out to save Tanner, his Marine medals always invisibly pinned to his T-shirt.

  "But now I realize..." His brother's voice trailed off.

  "Yeah," Tanner agreed, reading Troy's mind. His arms tightened possessively on the flushed beauty, even though he figured the other man's presence had ruined the moment.

  Now that most of the midnight kissing in the bar was complete, his chance of getting a second shot at the dark-haired female he held was probably remote. Too bad, he thought, but it was probably for the best. After all, he was sworn off the opposite sex until he got his career problems straightened out and his life back under his control.

  "She's not her," he told Troy. "She's..." He tilted his head to study the woman in his arms. While her hair was silky darkness like his bad luck charm's, and wha
t he could tell of her body claimed the same stellar curves, instead of possessing the slight exotic cast of the big D's features, this woman's were of the apple-cheeked, cute-nosed variety.

  Lovely in the extreme, but one hundred percent American rose. Long-stemmed. Dewy. Velvety.

  Sweet.

  In that paper crown, she looked like a princess who should be reigning over the American Legion's parade float on the Fourth of July.

  "...definitely not Desirée," he finished.

  The girl's face flushed deeper and the inside points of her arched brows slammed together. Her big brown eyes went from soft to stone. "Why is everyone saying that?" she hissed.

  Tanner glanced at Troy for help. "Uh..."

  The strange woman scooped up the girly drink and jerked straight in his lap.

  Tanner bit back a yelp as her offended tailbone connected with the bone on his body that had reacted like a pointer's tail on the opening day of duck hunting season the instant the American rose had landed against him. And okay, so the dog metaphor fit, because yes, he was already hard. Horny.

  Sue him. He'd been celibate for eleven months and counting. It was supposed to make him a better person, maybe not a bona fide white hat like the other men in his famous family, but at least someone who could be known for something other than screwing up.

  The girl tossed back the booze, slammed the glass to the table again, and glared at him. Then she grabbed the sides of his hair and yanked his face close.

  Kissed him.

  Desirée had done that once too.

  Except American Rose didn't taste like Desirée. Well, he couldn't remember what damn Desirée had tasted like. But certainly not tangy-sweet like this, with a little bite of mint. Mojito, he thought. Mojito and her own unique flavor.

  He liked it. He liked it a hell of a lot.

  Now she really went after the kiss, mashing her lips against his, more function than form, and he drew back, not just because he could sense her desperation, but because it was surging weirdly through him too.

  "Whoa," he said, fighting her pull on the ends of his hair and trying to sound amused and casual and not hornier than ever. "Whoa whoa whoa. Where's the fire, sweetheart?"

  Troy snickered and walked off, while American Rose froze. Then her hands dropped, her shoulders slumped, and a long sigh fluttered the ends of his hair. He thought she might cry.

  "God," she moaned instead. "I read this all wrong too, didn't I? You don't want me either, do you?"

  Maybe they were both a little tipsy, because she continued to sit on his thighs, though wilted now.

  "I haven't looked at a man in four years," she continued. "And then I have to be attracted to one who doesn't find me—"

  She broke off, brightened a little. "Are you by any chance gay?"

  Definitely both tipsy, he decided, not just because she'd asked such a question, but because he felt so instantly compelled to answer it.

  With his mouth against hers.

  Bending to her again, he licked his tongue across her pillowy bottom lip. Once. Twice. Felt her startled sip of air and the way her belly tensed against his inner forearm.

  "Sweetheart, does that seem like gay to you?" he whispered, letting the words play across her wet mouth.

  She made a muffled sound, then gave a tiny shake of her head, causing little blurry kisses between them.

  Now it was his belly that tightened, going almost as hard as the poor part of him trapped inside his jeans. He cleared his throat, his lips still whisper-close to hers. "What's your name?"

  She stilled for a moment. "Deborah," she said, then stiffened, as if surprised at what she'd chosen to dub herself. "Yours?"

  "Deborah" was such an obvious nom de party that he smiled and let the anonymity go both ways.

  If she didn't recognize him from all the media play of the last year, who was he to complain?

  "I'm Finn," he replied, not feeling the least remorse for using his best friend's first name. Hey, the guy had found his happiness just days ago with his former flame, Bailey Sullivan, and so wasn't around much to complain. "You can call me Finn."

  "Finn..." She tried it out, her long black lashes sweeping the apple curves of her pretty cheeks.

  He took the opportunity to look lower. Between the gap in her cotton shirt he could see seductive black lace, and in the gap of that, creamy cleavage. Enticing creamy cleavage.

  Despite the sight, he really should get rid of her, his good sense warned him. Even with the Finn mask in place, there were reasons—

  Tanner jolted against the straight back of his chair to stare down at her. "Did you say something about four years?"

  "Deborah" half turned to wind one arm around his neck, snuggling her closest breast against his chest. He liked that a hell of a lot too. His jeans tightened like a vise.

  "It's a long, sad story," she said. With her other hand she toyed with the fastenings on his old button-down shirt.

  Whoa whoa whoa all over again. Her absent fiddling was way too close to undressing for someone like himself, made stupid by lack of sex. He caught at her fingers, his eyes widening when she winced.

  Frowning, Tanner turned over the slim hand. Her palm was scraped and cut, the wounds fresh.

  Oh, God. Here it came, roiling up from his toes, over his knees, filling his chest. He took a breath, hoping there was still room to be found in his lungs. His protective streak was as wide as the Pacific Ocean, and ten years in the Secret Ser vice had only deepened all the instincts he'd been born with and then been raised to uphold. Heroism might have skipped this Hart so far, but not the drive to protect and serve.

  "What happened here?" snapped out of his mouth, in true agent style—clipped and commanding.

  "How'd your hands come to look like this? Who hurt you?"

  "I—I fell. Twice," she said, her eyes all big on his face.

  Ooooh, great, Hart. Now you're scaring the ladies. Shit. He gentled his hold. Lifted her palm so he could press a butterfly kiss on the worst of the damage. "Did someone cause you to fall?"

  Her gaze still glued to his, she shrugged.

  He took it for a negative. "Okay. Good. Fine." Touching his mouth to her hand again, he tried to relax, but the adrenaline was still in him, stiffening him...everywhere.

  God, just when he thought he couldn't get any harder.

  "Um...uh..." she started, her gaze still glued to his face.

  He held himself still, waiting for her to finish her thought. Maybe she wanted to know if there were Band-Aids on the premises. Or if he ever planned on letting her up from the little love nest he'd created with his body.

  At the thought, for some stupid reason his senses, his urges, his damn dumb brain screamed in protest. But really, it was for the best, right? He'd held on to celibacy for eleven months, and once he completed this little favor he was starting for his former boss tomorrow, he'd be able to get back to his old job. Finally, he'd be in charge of his own life again.

  There was no sense in taking the chance of fucking that up to night with a woman. He couldn't afford to be late, distracted, or even smelling like some other chick's perfume when he met Hannah Davis the next day. For the sake of his future, it was imperative he make a stellar first impression on her.

  Tanner released an inward sigh. "Deborah" looked too Goody Two Shoes for a one-night bang anyway, and that's all he had the time or inclination for.

  "Uh, Finn?" She appeared to be steeling herself for the big, Get lost, handsome.

  So he steeled himself to grin and hear it. "Yeah?"

  "Is there someplace we could...uh, go? You know..." She ducked her head. "...just for tonight?"

  The American Rose peeked at him through lashes with a look that was half innocence, half seduction. And Tanner was already more than half a goner, just with that. Then he remembered more.

  God, had she really said it had been four years for her?

  That clinched the decision.

  To hell with everything, he decided, pushing her
off his lap, but keeping his tender hold on her hand. To hell with his good intentions, his vow of celibacy, tomorrow's important meeting. After all, what could one night hurt?

  And anyway, the whole goddamn world knew that Tanner Hart was no hero.

  FROM THE DESK OF HANNAH DAVIS

  Things I Hate About New Year's:

  My noisemaker never goes off.

  Chapter Four

  Perched on a corduroy-covered couch, with a half-downed tumbler of white wine in her hand, Hannah realized that if someone made a movie of this episode of her life, they'd run a warning across the top: Do Not Try this at Home.

  But that was the whole point, she reminded herself. She wasn't at home. She was hundreds of miles from there, and from the Hannah who had never made an unapproved choice, let alone released a single inhibition.

  She was also a little drunk (more than a little?), but she wasn't going to use that as an excuse...or as an excuse to leave. Though without a doubt she would have advised a friend against going to bed with a stranger—

  Just then her stranger walked back into the living room of his small bungalow and her stomach jumped up and down like a preteen presented with her very own pony.

  —there was this undeniable, absolutely exciting reaction she had to this man.

  He sat beside her on the couch, and heat crawled up her arm as he took the wine from her fingers and set it on the small side table. He turned over her freed hand to expose her palm, and then she realized he had with him a cool, damp cloth. He used it to bathe the abraded flesh on the heel of one hand, and then on the other.

  She stared at the varied strands of blond in his hair—sand, honey, gold—fascinated by the colors and his gentle touch. Back at the bar his concern over her minor wounds had evaporated the last of her doubts about him.